


How Lucky We Are

by questionsleftunanswered



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Flashback, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionsleftunanswered/pseuds/questionsleftunanswered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock reflects back on his relationship with John. When his thoughts catch up to the present day, things really start to get interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The View from Up Here

**Author's Note:**

> (re-uploaded under a different title and structure. previously _In the Beginning _)__

John sat on his floor, his back resting against Sherlock’s legs and his head tilted back in Sherlock’s lap. He was sleeping. It looked extremely uncomfortable, but Sherlock wasn’t willing to wake him to ask or move and risk waking him that way. Even though he desperately wanted his laptop (sitting on the table in the kitchen, within sight), he didn’t move.

Sherlock sat, his hands just resting in his lap, framing John’s face. He watched the loyal doctor sleep and remembered the nearly impossible circumstances that led them here. 


	2. In the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looks back on his relationship with John and the circumstances that led them to the present day.

**_Three Years Ago_ **

**_Status: Flatmates_ **

“Sherlock, you need to move your brain,” John called from the kitchen, “I’m trying to make dinner and I can’t do that if there is a brain sitting in the sink.”

“Why don’t you move it, John? Too righteous for that as well?” Sherlock snapped back.

John knew he shouldn’t have said anything. Sherlock was still angry after this little spat and was now unlikely to eat; not because he wasn’t hungry, just to spite John.

“Fine. Where do you propose I put it? In Mrs. Hudson’s sink?” That was wrong to say. John knew it.

“I’ll take it. You are incredibly useless, John.” Sherlock took the brain and walked off. John thought for a moment and then realized where he was going. The bathtub. As much as John didn’t want a brain in his bathtub, he wanted to fight Sherlock much less. So he let him sulk up the stairs to John’s bedroom and heard the door open. John really did need to fix that creaking.

Sherlock came back down and John had water boiling over the burner.

“What are you making?” Sherlock asked, sounding a bit curious; the grumbling in his stomach giving him away.

“Pasta. You like pasta.” John said. He reached in the freezer and withdrew the sauce Mrs. Hudson had given them. He held it up for Sherlock to see. “Remind me that I need to thank her later and tell her how good it was.”

“How can you know that it’s good unless you’ve already eaten it? You can’t even go on past experience with Mrs. Hudson’s sauce unless you know she did everything the exact same as she did last time. As that is highly unlikely, the only way would be if you unfroze it earlier and-”

“Sherlock, shut up. Her pasta sauce is always very good and much better than you or I could do. Stop trying to analyse it.”

John finished making dinner and they ate. The conversation was one sided. Sherlock spent the entire time talking _at_ John about the importance of the brain, both still in their bodies and in the bathtub.

John nodded and smiled and only understood half of what was said. Sherlock jumped from how the brain controlled bodily functions to how it can numb pain to how long it’ll preserve in vinegar versus formaldehyde.

John washed the dishes and Sherlock kept going. He covered MRI scans, the invention of the MRI, and how he had broken one once and left the expenses in Mycroft’s name. When John had finished, they both moved to sit in their respective arm chairs. Sherlock swiped John’s computer on the way over.

Before John sat down, Sherlock tutted at him and grinned. “You forgot to tell Mrs. Hudson how good her sauce was and how you’ve also acquired psychic abilities.”

“Right! Thanks. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

John went downstairs and a few minutes turned into an hour, then an hour and a half, then two hours.

Finally, John came back up the stairs carrying a tin of biscuits. Sherlock glanced up and then returned to reading criticism of Victor Weisskopf.

John set the tin in the kitchen. “I’m going to go up to bed, Sherlock.”

“Do as you please.”

“I’m telling you so that you know to go get your brain.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock got up with much over-effort. He fetched the brain and left it back in the sink. John passed him on the stairs, gave him a nod and a smile, and went to sleep.

***

 **_Two Years Ago_ **

**_Status: Flatmates_ **

Tuesday nights were always uneventful. You could go almost anywhere in London and see that Tuesday nights were relaxed. People filled the cafés and could be found hiding in little shops, just wasting the time away.

John and Sherlock watched a movie every Tuesday night. Each of them creature of habit, this established tradition had existed since the first few Tuesdays they had. John insisted they watch the Bourne movies because “Sherlock would really enjoy them.”

Sherlock did not enjoy them, but that’s another story for another time.

On this particular night, Sherlock and John were watching a movie that Molly insisted that they would like. She claimed that everyone liked it.

John though _Finding Nemo_ was relatively funny. Sherlock not so much.

“John, I don’t understand why the blue fish can’t remember things. Fish cannot contract short-term memory loss,” he kept saying. Sherlock was trying to rationalize an animated movie.

As the credits rolled, John stood and put away his bowl of popcorn. Sherlock hadn’t had any. He didn’t eat on Tuesdays.

Sherlock sat up from the couch and stretched. He curled back up, occupying only one half.

John sat down in the remaining space. Sherlock stretched his legs out over John’s lap; his blue dressing gown fell open. John was used to this, Sherlock’s excessive lack of boundaries.

Sherlock shifted this time, though. He moved so that his head lay in John’s lap and his ankles dangled over the edge of the sofa. He looked up at John. To those who didn’t know Sherlock, they’d see the regular calculating look. Under that, though, John saw uncertainty. He had never seen that look in Sherlock’s eyes before. It worried him more than he was willing to admit.

John tentatively rested a hand in Sherlock’s hair, his soft curls flattening and curving around his fingers. Sherlock’s hair was softer than John thought. He would be lying if he said that he had never thought of taking Sherlock, owning him in every possible way. He knew Sherlock was not a man to be owned though. He exerted self-control. This was crossing some invisible line that John never even knew was there.

“Are you ok, Sherlock?” John asked. He met Sherlock’s eyes again. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer and promptly shut it again. John could see his mind racing, searching for the right wording, the perfect articulation of exactly what he was thinking.

“Cafuné,” Sherlock said.

John looked puzzled, “I don’t know what that means, Sherlock.”

“It’s the act of tenderly running your fingers through someone’s hair. It’s Brazilian Portuguese.”

John relinquished his hands, “Sorry. I didn’t kno-”

Sherlock impatiently reach up and brought John’s hands back to his hair, “No. Don’t stop, John. I like it.”

John returned to sliding Sherlock’s curls through his fingers. He wondered if this was going to be a regular thing. He hoped it would be.

***

 **_One Year Seven Months Ago_ **

**_Status: Nothing_ **

John sat in his armchair reading Neil Gaiman. No matter how many times he read _American Gods_ , he would never get over how amazing it was.

Sherlock was sitting at the desk tapping away at the keys with a determined expression on his face.

They passed most of their time together in this fashion.

After a while, John put the book aside, stood, stretched, and padded to the kitchen.

“Sherlock, do you want tea?”

“Yes.”

John put the kettle on and opened the fridge in search of milk.

“We’re out,” Sherlock said, much closer than he was a moment ago.

John started and turned around. Sherlock was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You could buy milk sometime, you know,” John offered. He knew it was pointless to suggest.

Sherlock just scoffed and opened the higher cabinet to fish out sugar. John moved to leaned against the counter beside him, their arms not quite touching.

“Stop it,” Sherlock bust suddenly, “I can hear and feel you thinking and wanting and it’s driving me absolutely mad. You have to stop or move out. You’re distracting me from my work and I can’t have distractions to my work.”

John was thoroughly taken aback, “You want me to move out?”

“No, don’t be daft. I want you to stop wanting me. I can hear your body language screaming at me every time I see you. It’s written in your pupils and in your stance; the way your eyes flicker, the way your smile crinkles at the corners, the way you lick your lips or stand closer to me when you think there’s a threat. I can see it in the way you make me perfect tea and the way you advert your eyes after a shower. Everything you do is screaming at me like it was shouted through a bullhorn. If you can’t stop that, then the only solution is for you to leave. It's a problem that I'm noticing these things.”

“I-I’m sorry. I’ll just go and…um…pack I suppose. I’ll turn in my rent for the month to Mrs. Hudson. I just…I’m sorry.” John stammered. He practically sprinted to his room. _STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID._ His brain was screaming at him. Of course Sherlock noticed. Of course he had seen every little thing. It was utterly ridiculous to think he hadn’t.

John threw his large duffel bag on his bed. It was too small for all his clothes, but it was all he had. He stuffed underwear, socks, shirts, jeans, everything he could get his hands on and would fit. He slung the bag over his shoulder and ignored the ache that was spreading determinedly through his chest.

He met Sherlock on the way down. John ducked his head and pushed past.

Sherlock’s mouth was open again. He was struggling for words that weren’t there. John turned around, half expecting Sherlock to come up with a grand declaration of love and affection. John just wanted Sherlock to ask him to stay. He waited one beat, then two. Nothing came.

John turned and walked out the door. His footsteps felt heavy as he walked away from that broad, blue door. He didn’t even bother hailing a cab. He didn’t know where he was going. John just started walking north. Wherever that led him.

After a while he realized that he had to find somewhere to go. He phoned up Sarah. They hadn’t been in a relationship for a while, but they had remained good friends. She offered him the sofa, he accepted.

The cab pulled up outside her flat.

John dropped his bag in the doorway and collapsed in Sarah’s arms. He knew he shouldn’t be broken hearted over a relationship that didn’t really even exist, but he didn’t know what else to do.

John cried and Sarah let him.

***

 **_One Year Six Months Three Weeks_ **

**_Status: Nothing_ **

John had lived with Sarah for a week. He was trying his best to save face and make sure he wasn’t just taking advantage of her. He kept the fridge well stocked and cleaned up after meals and such. He made sure the couch was clean and that he left the bathroom tidy.

John and Sarah shared dinner and breakfast. It was a level of amicable domesticity that John never got from Sherlock.

They were reclining on the sofa watching QI reruns when Sarah brought up the subject of John getting his own place.

“I am looking. I’m sorry I’ve been here so long. I’ll try and have a place by the end of the week?” John said. He genuinely had been looking, but somehow finding a place of his own and moving in made it more real that he and Sherlock were no longer flatmates.

John reached over to the side table and drew out an article from a stack of papers. He handed it to Sarah.

“What do you think about that one? I think it’s a decent size for one bloke. Cheap enough. Still close to Bart’s,” he said.

Sarah looked it over and read the descriptions. She smiled at him, “It looks lovely. Do you want me to go with you when you go to buy it?”

“Sure.”

That was the end of it. In another week John had moved out of Sarah’s and into his own flat just outside the bustling centre of London. He bought a second hand motor bike so that he could ride to work every day. Cabs were rare where he now lived. John was silently grateful he had gotten a license for one when he was going through his bucket list before he was deployed.

John’s life over the next month was boring. He rode to work every day, rode home every night. He met Lestrade at the pub a few times. Neither of them talked about Sherlock. John avoided the papers because he knew each murder would give a time and a place and that’s where Sherlock would be. He ate frozen meals and watched crap telly.

John taught himself a bit of the piano (one had been left in the flat) to kill time and remember what Sherlock’s violin used to sound like. He was rubbish at it, of course, but sometimes he got lucky. He would play a chord with just a gentle touch and the ghost of bow against strings would fill his ears. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night and listening to the sound of Sherlock playing as it drifted up to his bedroom. He remembered lying in the darkness, silently marvelling at how remarkable Sherlock was.

John remembered the day that he realized he loved Sherlock. He knew Sherlock’s work came first, so he let it lie dormant. He controlled himself and they got along fine for quite some time. He remembered leaving. Some of John's stuff was still at Baker Street. He hadn’t had the nerve to go back and claim it.

It was the beginning of his second month in his new flat when the doorbell rang. He hit the speaker button. “Hello?”

“I…um…John? May I come up?”

John nearly fell over. He buzzed the door open and then paced back and forth until there was a tentative knock on his door. John opened it and just stared.

“You’re here.”

“So I am,” replied Sherlock.

“Why?”

“To…talk. That’s what people do, right? After they’ve had a spat they talk about it and things go back to normal. You come back to Baker Street, sell that ridiculous bike, and pretend that you never moved out at all. Though you are welcome to bring the piano. I do play that as well.”

John though Sherlock was saying that he missed him. But that couldn’t be it.

“You told me I had to change how I felt…feel about you or leave. It was detrimental to your work and I had to change or go,” John said, “So I went and I got a new place and I’m still figuring out how to live on my own after two years living with you.  Now you show up and tell me to come home? What the hell, Sherlock!”

John’s voice had steadily risen until he was screaming at Sherlock. He was angry and hurt and he wanted even Sherlock’s lack of emotional range to understand how he felt. He wanted to pound it into that brilliant mind that this was very, very not good.

“I’ve missed you,” Sherlock said. He spoke slowly, trying to wrap his mouth around the words; as though he had never said them before.

John softened and looked up meeting Sherlock’s eyes, “I’ve missed you too. You know I have. I know you can see it all over this sorry excuse for a home.” John’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he turned away. “Do you want some tea, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Sherlock walked in and took a seat on the one of the few bits of furniture in the sparse room. John brought him tea and sat on the piano bench.

Sherlock took a sip and couldn’t help but smile. The tea was perfect.

“John. Pack your things. We’re going home. Mycroft can more than compensate you for the expenses of the flat and will pay Sarah as well for taking you in,” Sherlock said, setting his empty teacup aside.

“You can’t just pay people off, Sherlock.”

“I can’t, but Mycroft can. Get your things.”

“I’m not coming with you,” John whispered. It was out before he could stop it. He truly couldn’t go back to Baker Street. He couldn’t go back to pining after his flatmate and seeing him every morning and every night. It was torturous, living in that flat with Sherlock.

John loved the way Sherlock’s hair rumpled after a proper sleep. He loved being woken up by the violin and being harassed for tea or his computer. John loved chasing Sherlock through London and staying in and watching stupid movies. John loved cooking food that Sherlock would always eat; he loved watching Sherlock think and sleep and dream and read. John loved Sherlock. He couldn’t go back to living together and pretending that wasn’t the truth.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Sherlock interrupted, “You’re coming back home because I miss you. There. I’ve done the social convention and come to you first; therefore you are obligated to return home with me.”

“That’s not how it works, Sherlock.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock said, the corners of his lips tipping up. He stood and went to John, towering over the smaller, sitting man.

Sherlock bent over and pressed his lips to John’s. 


End file.
